Cold Comfort
by Amatara
Summary: Autopsies are intimate things from whatever perspective. They're also very suited for long-overdue conversations. Albert Rosenfield, Dale Cooper, Maddy Ferguson, and the intricacies of coping.


**Thanks to: **Ingridmatthews for the beta; David Lynch for the inspiration.

**Author's Note:** Basically my attempt to explain why Albert suddenly seems so much mellower after coming back for Maddy's autopsy. Never mind the obvious explanation is change in writer/director - something must have been up with that, my inner fangirl thought gleefully. *g* In my head, this is set in the same universe as my older story _Damaged Goods_, so could be read as a companion piece to that.

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**Cold Comfort**

Realism is an undervalued art. If he ever writes his memoirs – which of course he'll never need to. Anything worth saying he _says_, no sugarcoating, to the person entitled. He figures there'll be no clamor for repeats. But _if _he writes them, that's what they'll say.

The bodybag's zipper is cold to the touch, his fingers stiff and uncooperative. Careful, or the blasted thing gets stuck for sure. Like the Palmer girl: he had to tear _her _bag open with a penknife. Like she didn't want to be seen, he'd have said, if he were prone to flights of fancy – which of course he isn't. That's what you get in a town where violent death's a stranger. Things get rusty; then, when they're needed, they break. It's the same with people. That's realism too, even if no one believes it.

The zipper gives, reluctant. He peels back the fabric to reveal the girl's face, crinkled grey petals around an ashen bud. The familiarity is more startling than he'd care to admit. Which of course he –

Ah, damn him.

No point in not saying it. There's few acts in life that burn a human body into one's mind quite like a two-hour postmortem does. He prides himself on recalling every one. He's been tempted to count, but he never did.

Laura Palmer's is particularly fresh in mind. And not just because he still has the bruises to show.

That too, mind you, was realism come back to haunt him – the thing he tries his damnedest to rub into every smiley-faced, wide-eyed sod he meets. Because the world's not a big, sparkling, whipped-cream-and-sugar treat, oh no. For one, if the world had a shred of decency, it would consider it enough for a man to be spending the night in an empty stone-aged lab in a godforsaken burg, opening up yet another murdered kid after a four-hour drive out from Seattle. That in itself is plenty, thank you very much. Except the world is never decent. The world likes to hit a person when he's already neck-deep in crap. Like right now.

Right now, there's a stubborn blind spot in the middle of his vision, blurring out Madeleine Ferguson's cheek. It's tiny – tiny enough to ignore if he tilts his head a little. It won't be for long, though. The fact it just took him two seconds to remember the girl's last name is as clear a sign of that as the telltale tingling in his neck.

He squints and pulls up Maddy's eyelid, lets the needle hover. This, more than anything, makes him feel the intruder. Not the power drill or sawing through the ribcage, but the eyes. Always the eyes. Like he's prying away what peace they had left.

His own eyes are stinging, and he rubs hard, with a fury he can't bring himself to feel. Instead he counts off the time, idly, because it's not like he hasn't done this before. Ten minutes or so since it started. That gives him another five, maybe ten, till the pain sets in. Twenty more before it becomes debilitating, which puts him halfway through the autopsy. After that, it's just sucking it up until he's done, then call a cab. Forget driving. Last time he tried _that _with a migraine, he ended up having to sleep it off in the car.

He keeps her eyes open while he takes the pictures, draws more samples, prepares his tools. Closing them is a relief, so he waits for it, draws it out as long as he can. Punishment, maybe. A reminder, at least. The better he does his job, the less poor bastards there'll be on his slab, staring back at him. Never mind there's no one better at this in the goddamn _state_. He can never be good enough.

Twenty-three minutes, in the end, before he folds and breaks out the aspirin. He'd take something stronger, something that actually _works, _except he needs his wits about him. Not that that's going terrifically well. He's not one for _déjà vu,_ but the sense of it is overwhelming: the eyes are Laura Palmer's, and the cheeks, the shape of the collarbones. The breasts, when he slides the scalpel down, are Laura's breasts, except for the pattern of bruises, mottled purple on white.

The bruises always tell.

He works fast, head down, eyes glued to the body. He's dimmed all lights except the main one. Still, the scalpel breaks off scattered pieces, each glint a knifepoint in his skull.

Reaching to close Maddy's eyes, he finds them gleaming too. Wide, milky, hardly human now, he could swear they're staring at some spot above his shoulder. Which is great, really, just fucking great. Not even halfway through, and he's already seeing phantoms. Either he's further gone than he thinks, or it's Cooper rubbing off on him, Cooper with his babble of dancing dwarves and giants, mysteriously vanished rings. Except, of course, ifhe _were_ Cooper, there'd be some Zen trick or other to rely on – wield the pain, let it sharpen his mind into a diamond or whatever half-baked, psychedelic metaphor applies. As himself, all he can do is grit his teeth and bear it, phantoms and all.

Or are they? That noise behind him, how long has it been there? The room's ventilator is shot, rattling away like hamsters in a treadwheel, but this isn't _that_. More erratic, like – wings, flapping? Some kind of big shadow at the far window, but it could be anything, cloud cover, branches swaying, anything. Still, his skin prickles like he's being watched – cue half a million years of instinct that, right now, isn't worth a damn thing.

The creak of the door is a bombshell, and he wheels before he thinks better of it. Burst of stars behind his eyes, but the shape in the doorway is unmistakable.

Well, he could have guessed, couldn't he? Who else would be taking a moonlit stroll to the morgue?

"Something out there, Albert?" Cooper, of course. Voice mild, curious, and as wide awake as when Albert ordered him off to sleep just an hour ago. He snorts. Obviously, _that _went down well.

"Thought there was." He turns back, hiding a grimace while he does, and of course there's nothing now. "Just a shadow – like a bird, scrabbling against the window. An owl, maybe… Charming, isn't it, your local wildlife?" The alarm on Cooper's face is vaguely unsettling, so he growls, "You're supposed to be asleep. I thought the answers came to you in dreams?"

"I wish they did, Albert." Faint half-smile. "So far, all my dreams brought me were riddles. Hence my hoping for more corporeal answers. Like yours."

"And it couldn't wait until morning?" Flinching at his own raised voice, he takes the edge off with a shrug. "Well, I'm just getting to the _meaty _part." Sticks up the scalpel in punctuation. "Play the tourist all you want, as long as you let me do my job." He turns back to the slab and away from the light, calls over his shoulder, "Oh, by the way – killer's our guy."

"Madeline's fingernail?" Not missing a beat.

"Letter 'O'. Right there, plastic bag on the table." He points Cooper to it, uses the moment to finish incising. _Slowly. _His head's still killing him, no surprise there, but his hands are steady as always, and his brain's still attached to the rest of him. That's something.

"Albert?" Cooper again, holding something up towards him, and he resists the temptation to groan. "Are you – taking these?" Odd kind of frown, and he realizes, too late, he forgot to put the damn aspirin bottle away. Well, it's not like he was expecting to entertain, now, was he? He starts to roll his eyes, but of course, Cooper always expects his questions replied to.

"Yeah." Throws in some sarcasm for good measure, to quell the budding concern in Cooper's face. "Hoped it'd help me bear idiocy, but no such luck. So far all it works for is migraine."

Cooper nods, seems to take it at face value. Dammit. "You're up to this?" Quietly, and now he _does _roll his eyes.

"Believe me, Cooper, like any sane person I'd prefer lounging on a tropical island instead, but I gather that's not an option." He tosses his head, which throws the critters at his temple into a frenzy. _Not_ his best idea of tonight. Cooper blinks, makes a move as if to steady him, but a glare remedies that fast enough. "Anyway, enough chitchat for one day. You need the evidence while it's fresh, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." And at least Cooper, being Cooper, wouldn't question that.

"Good. Now, pick yourself a nice comfy chair and get out of my way. Talk if you want, but talk _quietly._"

"I will, Albert." Drifting past him, not to a chair, but to the opposite end of the slab. "Unless –" Hopeful tone, and Albert finds himself bracing for impact. "– you let me lend you a hand. I've done it before, you know. Put me to work, maybe I can put my mind at ease as well." Which,apart from the obvious ploy to go easy on _him, _sounds dangerously like Cooper-code for _I'm going stir-crazy. _He'd ignore the former, but the latter would be a bad idea.

"Fine." Long-suffering sigh. "But you don't touch anything unless I tell you. _And_ you make us coffee. I know it's crap, but I'm not in a mood to be picky."

Gratitude in the eyes, so not quite a ploy, anyway. Uneasy, he watches Cooper stride out, takes advantage of the lull to get his wind back, prop himself up against the table. Pressure's still relentless, and he hunts it down with his fingertips – herd of trapped animals inside of his skull, crowding outward in waves. His stomach cramps half-heartedly, but takes it in stride. He can't lose his dinner because he didn't _have_ dinner. Halleluja for that.

Muffled thump signals the return of Cooper and coffee, and before he can react there's a cold weight against the nape of his neck. He gulps back a curse, clamps down on icy plastic and a towel and the brush of Cooper's fingertips. Fucking sweet relief, and he's melting into it before he even remembers he's supposed to protest.

"Good?"

"Mmm." Halfway between a grunt and something far less dignified. Unsteady breath, and Cooper's smile is a cautious thing, tucked away behind dark-smudged eyes.

"You see? Twin Peaks medical facilities do have _some_ redeeming qualities, Albert."

"So they got a freezer. Great. Who do I nominate for the Nobel prize?" He snorts feebly, tries to muster indignation but comes up short. Beside him, Cooper sips his own coffee with what sounds like a sigh of bliss, but his eyes are hooded, vaguely reproachful.

"All right, Albert." Plunk of the mug on the table serves as exclamation mark. "Let's have it."

He groans. "Let's have _what?_"

"You're off your game; have been since you arrived. That's a rarity for you. In fact, I don't recall any time in the past when–"

"Cooper, there is a five-ton elephant sitting in my neck, butting me in the head with a pickaxe." As dry as he can deliver it. "And _you_'re asking why I'm 'off my game'?"

"From where I'm standing, Albert, that's a symptom, not a cause." Still with that maddening calm, the type that impresses the hell out of most people, but makes Albert just want to slug him instead.

"Oh, so you read minds, too?" And now he's sounding like a spoiled kid, but screw that. "Shouldn't you be thinking about the case, instead of –"

"You're as much a part of this case now as I am, Albert." Said in complete sincerity, which is almost too absurd to be true, because _that's the fucking point_, isn't it? It is, and for all his usual clairvoyance, Cooper doesn't even _see _he's hit the jackpot. "Now, there's obviously something bothering you, and if there's anything I've learned, it's that bottling things up has a way of backfiring, so..."

"Oh yeah? Well, it used to work pretty well for me." Spitting the words out like they're acid, and the look on Cooper's face almost makes it worth the headache. "This used to be just a case, Cooper," he barks, because if he doesn't do this now, he's never going to. "Now it's a case _and_ people, scared and confused and screwed up people all hollering for attention. And you know what – _I _can't give it to them. There's a reason why I'm not out in the field, except when, God forbid, you ask me to, and there's a reason why I am how I am out here, and it works just fine. Then _you _have to get all crazy about this place, setting the good example, have to start showing you care, and before I know, I'm a bastard for not doing the same."

Sheer stubbornness gets him to the end of the sentence, but no further. When he comes up for air, Cooper is staring at him like he's just grown wings and a tail, and possibly babies too. "Albert, I – you have to believe I never intended that." Quietly, words measured in teaspoons of caution. "In fact, I never even _considered _that you would –"

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you didn't." Bitterly, and now the hurt in Cooper's eyes is unmistakable. "I can cope with a lot of craziness, Coop. _In my own way_." Vision bleeding to white, and for a second, he actually wonders if his knees are going to give. Either that, or have that critter from Alien come popping out straight of his skull; he isn't sure which he prefers. "And hell, I don't even mind having to explain myself to small-town yokels like Truman _why _it is that I'm not Mr. Happy Do-Good around here. I just –"

"All right, Albert. All right." Cooper's voice low and hypnotic, and it must be one of his Buddhist tricks that suddenly has him sitting down, on a chair that wasn't there before, eyes about level with Maddy's face. He grits his teeth, dismayed to find his shirt sticking to him like he just _swam _over from Seattle. But his head's clearing, and he'd almost wish it wasn't, if only to avoid facing those too-keen eyes.

"This is how it works, Cooper," he says, wearily. "I'm just the guy with the knife. I cut them open, then I tie them up in a neat little package and I let them go. Except thanks to your little Twin Peaks obsession–"

"You can't let it go?" A hand tightens on his shoulder, gives a little squeeze before slipping away.

He starts to nod, thinks better of it. "Then to top the cake, the latest victim you roll in here looks exactly like the first one, and any clue you come up with sounds enough like hocus-pocus it's like a bad ripoff of _The Twilight Zone_! This whole thing's insane, and I don't know how you fucking deal with it, Cooper, I don't –" Trailing off, he finds his coffee cup still on the table, folds his hands around it. Still warm, which is more comforting than it ever should be.

Cooper is a pale statue beside him, eyes fixed on some spot between the floor and Albert's knees. "I suppose…" Long pause, like he's mulling it over. "I deal with it by talking to people. By connecting to the reality of this place, letting it anchor me. That's the only way I _can _deal with it, but I –" Deep breath, the kind that makes his heart clench a little. "I'm sorry, Albert." Softly. "It worked for me, so I didn't stop to think –"

"– that the average mortal might not be like _you_?" he grunts, sparing Cooper the trouble. "Yeah, well, what's done is done." Which is as close to accepting an apology as he thinks he'll ever come. He almost adds _thanks, _but that would be akward, now, would it?

Cooper blinks, like shaking himself out of some kind of dream or head trip or whatever damn thing it is Cooper's in when he's looking like that. "Well –" Pensive tone. "Perhaps you can still get some good out of this, Albert. Make some friends here." Raising his hand at Albert's groan of protest. "At least, stop making new enemies. There are good people out here, if you give them a chance."

"I know that." Well, yeah, of course he does; that's the problem. "Just do me a favour, will you?" Forcing a grimace. "Don't put me beside a campfire with Deputy Poodlebrains and make me join in sing-alongs. We all got our limits."

"I won't, Albert." Hint of a smile that turns wistful. Sideways glance leads him back to Maddy, looking even deader for the slice he peeled out of her, and twice as pale.

Enough of this. He's still got a job to do, hasn't he? It's about time he did.

"Coop –" He pushes himself up from the chair, is relieved when Cooper makes no move to assist. "You still want to do this? Because if you do, it's gotta be –"

"Two minutes, Albert." Tone that brooks no dissent. "Just tell me where I find spare clothes to wear."

He points, shifts the ice to his temple, thinking _what the hell. _Takes measured breaths with his head low and his hip against the table, while Cooper putters around the room, shrugging out of his jacket and into lab coat and gloves. Out of uniform, he looks strangely fragile, and Albert finds himself groping for something to offer that doesn't sound trite.

"We'll find him," he says, for lack of better. "The bastard who did this." Straightens to find, a little to his surprise, that he's still in working order, not cracking at the seams just yet. Well, of course he isn't. Neither of them are.

Across from him, Cooper gives a little shudder of his own, trails gloved fingertips across Maddy's wrist. "I don't know, Albert. Until today, I was convinced Ben Horne was our man. Now, frankly… I'm out of options."

He sighs, beckons for Cooper to extend his arm. "Well, that's why you're here, isn't it? Why _I'm_ here, more to the point, rather than watching a late-night, tastefully erotic moviefrom the living-room sofa, scotch on the side." Glancing aside, he's rewarded by Cooper's reluctant grin. Good. "One way or another, we'll get your answers." Voice firm as he palms the shears, guides Cooper's hand around them, into the right angle. "Now shush and cut – right there."


End file.
